Yantra Protocol
Copyright© 2025 by Tantrayaan
42: Asha Sangini
Mythology Sex Story: 42: Asha Sangini - Bharath moves from Chennai to Calcutta to join Heritage City - one of India’s top football clubs - with dreams of becoming a professional footballer. But after rescuing a mysterious man from a robbery, he finds himself drawn into a hidden world of vivid dreams, powerful women, and ancient forces beyond his understanding. As his journey on the pitch grows more intense, so does the pull of something deeper - a path shaped by desire, danger, and a power that is only just beginning to reveal it
Caution: This Mythology Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Fa/Fa Mult Consensual Mind Control Romantic BiSexual Heterosexual Fiction Crime Sports Alternate History Paranormal Magic Sharing Group Sex Harem Polygamy/Polyamory Indian Male Indian Female Anal Sex Exhibitionism First Oral Sex Safe Sex Squirting Tit-Fucking Indian Erotica
13 September 2000
Heritage City FC Clubhouse – Press Hall
The press hall hummed with a low, professional energy, the air cool and smelling of polished wood and faint coffee. Warrior banners in navy and crimson flanked the raised dais where the microphones stood like silent sentinels, their red recording lights a constellation of waiting attention. The seats were a sea of expectant faces from every major sports weekly, city tabloid, and national lifestyle desk, all pens poised and cameras at the ready.
In the center of it all sat Bharath Hema, looking every bit the ascendant football star in his pristine club jersey, his presence radiating a clean, athletic vitality even in stillness. And beside him, a vision of calibrated elegance, was Anya Das. She wore a Warrior athletic co-ord set that managed to be both sophisticated and subtly commanding, the dark blue fabric complementing the easy confidence of her posture.
The club’s PR officer opened with a nod, and the first questions were strictly professional, lobbed softly about midfield tactics and closed-door game momentum. Bharath fielded them with a gracious, team-focused humility that was both genuine and media-savvy, always deflecting praise to his coaches and fellow players. A comfortable, warm chuckle moved through the room at his self-deprecating charm.
The energy shifted perceptibly when a younger journalist from a lifestyle section leaned forward. “Anya, Warrior’s campaign with Heritage has been trending nationally for two weeks. What’s the secret to that kind of synergy?”
Anya’s smile was a slow bloom, her head tilting just so. “Genuine admiration is the foundation. Warrior sought to align with authentic stories, and this team is a living library of them. It’s about grit, discipline, heart.” She did not glance at Bharath as she said the final word, but a subtle, powerful current seemed to arc across the space between them, as if the word itself was a physical token passed from her lips to his soul. The temperature in the room seemed to rise a degree.
“Any plans for future collaboration?” the journalist followed up.
“Absolutely,” Anya affirmed, her voice layering sincerity over strategy. “This has always been about more than fashion. It’s about tangible impact.”
A camera flash fired, capturing not just an image but a moment: the two of them had exchanged a glance. It was not a long look, but it was profoundly dense - a complete, private conversation held in a quiet meeting of eyes that spoke of shared secrets and unshakable foundation. It was warm, familiar, and deeply intimate, a crack in their public personas that revealed the solid rock of private understanding beneath.
It was this crack that the next journalist, an older man with a shrewd smile, immediately wedged open. “So,” he said, his tone deceptively casual, “are the delightful rumors about the two of you actually true?”
Bharath’s effortless smile didn’t flicker. Instead, as if drawn by a force greater than gravity, his hand moved beneath the table. The room did not see the journey, only the result: his fingers finding and interlacing with Anya’s, a bold and undeniable declaration hidden in plain sight. The contact was a silent explosion.
“Yeah,” he said, his grin widening into something unguarded and radiant. “We’re together.”
The room erupted not in chaos, but in a unified, delighted eruption of sound - gasps, laughter, the frantic scratching of pens. Questions overlapped in a joyful clamor.
“How long?” “Where did you meet?” “Was it the charity gala last month?”
“Yes,” Anya confirmed, laughter lighting her features and a charming blush coloring her cheeks. “The gala.”
“What is it like,” called another voice, “dating a rising football star?”
“I’m still learning,” she teased, her eyes sparkling as she finally looked directly at him, the world narrowing to the space between their chairs. “He collects more grass stains than I do silk dresses.”
The crowd laughed, but the laughter stilled when the next question landed. “And you, Bharath? What’s it like dating the tragic princess of Calcutta?”
The description hung in the air for a dangerous second. Bharath didn’t just turn his head toward Anya; his entire being seemed to reorient toward her, as if she were his only true north. His playful expression softened into one of pure, unadulterated reverence.
“She is not tragic,” he corrected, his voice low yet carrying to every corner of the silent hall. It was a tone one might use in a sanctuary. “She is fierce. She is the most brilliant, the most compelling, the most beautifully complicated woman I have ever known.”
The room did not just sigh; it seemed to collectively hold its breath and then release it in a wave of palpable enchantment. The raw, unfiltered devotion in his words made the earlier charged glances seem like mere whispers. This was a shout from the heart. Even the seasoned sound engineer blinked away a sudden moisture from his eyes, captivated by the tangible love that had just made the corporate press hall feel profoundly, humanly sacred.
Long after the formal session had ended, the flashbulbs continued to fire, trying to capture the lingering aura of a revelation that had been felt far more than it had been heard.
Ishara stood apart from the swirling chaos of the press corps, a still, elegant figure anchored in the shadow of a marble pillar. The air around her was cooler, quieter, a self-contained pocket of silence amidst the celebratory din. Her arms were crossed, not in defiance, but in the manner of a master strategist observing a complex and lively game from an untouchable vantage point. Her sharp, intelligent eyes remained unblinking, their focus absolute and chillingly precise.
Her gaze was a laser, fixed on the radiant couple at the center of the storm. She watched not as a fan, but as a connoisseur of human mechanics and a dealer in hidden truths.
Rekha’s daughter and the new darling of Indian football. The pairing was almost too perfect, a publicist’s fantasy made flesh. Anya was a vision of curated beauty, every line of her speaking of grace and reclaimed dignity. And the boy, Bharath, was something else entirely. He was the living image of a youthful hero, handsome in an open, guileless way that seemed to pull all the light in the room toward him. A chocolate boy personified, with a smile that could disarm a nation.
But Ishara saw past the perfect packaging. She was parsing the subtler language of their bodies, the micro-currents that flowed between them. The way Anya’s shoulder softened ever so slightly in his direction even when she was addressing the crowd. The unconscious tilt of Bharath’s head when she spoke, as if her voice was a frequency only he was tuned to receive. The heat in their shared glance was not manufactured for the cameras; it was a slow, contained burn that promised a private inferno.
They were not faking it. Every gesture, every smile, every moment of silent communion was authentic. Their chemistry was not a transactional public performance. It was real, profound, and deeply rooted.
This realization did not soften Ishara; it sharpened her focus to a razor’s edge. Authenticity was a far more dangerous commodity than any staged romance. Real love created blind spots, true, but it also forged unbreakable bonds and provided a powerful, motivating force. They were not just beautiful and influential. They were believable. And belief was the most potent currency of all.
A flicker of something purely visceral, a spark she ruthlessly suppressed, passed through her as she watched Bharath laugh. The boy was magnificent. The raw physicality of him, combined with that earnest warmth, stirred a faint, unexpected, and thoroughly inconvenient tingle of desire deep within her. She acknowledged it with cold detachment, filed it away as a data point on his power to influence, and let it evaporate.
Without shifting her gaze from the dais, she spoke to the young man standing attentively beside her, her voice a low, clear note in the hum. “Compile a complete dossier. Every interview clip, every press mention, every available training log and match footage. Prioritize Bharath Hema. I want to understand the exact architecture of his talent. I want to measure how good he truly is.”
The assistant gave a curt, understanding nod and melted into the crowd to execute the command.
Ishara remained, her mind already weaving threads into a dark tapestry. They were powerful. They were marketable. They were trusted. Anya might present herself as a delicate rose to the public, but Ishara could see the iron lineage of Rekha in the elegant strength of her spine and the shrewd calm in her eyes. And Bharath? That potent combination of talent, charisma, and apparent sincerity made him a tool of immense potential. He could be more useful than either of them could possibly realize.
A slow, thin smile, devoid of any warmth, touched her lips. Let them have this moment. Let them rise on this tide of adoration. Let the entire country wrap them in affection and project its dreams onto their golden partnership. She would study their ascent, chart their trajectory, and learn the source of their strength.
The higher they climbed, the more dazzling their spotlight, the more satisfying it would be to expertly unravel it all. The nation’s love would simply make the fall more devastating when she finally, and with clinical precision, pulled the ground out from beneath their perfect world.
The Ballygange Apartment
The call connected with a shrill electronic ring, immediately drowned out by a wave of familiar, gleeful noise.
“Aiyo, Anna!” Devi’s voice, rich with Tamilian theatrics, burst through the speaker. “I just saw you on TV! You didn’t just confirm you were dating, you announced it like you were unveiling a national treasure! My phone hasn’t stopped buzzing. All my friends in Chennai are asking if I can introduce them to your ‘hot friend’.”
Priya’s drier, Bengali-accented tone followed like a perfect counterpoint. “Please. He wasn’t unveiling a treasure, Devi. He was the treasure looking utterly dazzled by its keeper. Bharath, you stared at Anya with the focus of a man trying to read fine print in a hurricane. It was borderline obscene for a public broadcast.”
Anya, curled on the sofa with her feet tucked under Bharath’s thigh, laughed, the sound bright and unburdened. Bharath squeezed her ankle, his own grin widening as Kim, from her perch on the armrest, rolled her eyes with affection. Celina watched them all from her chair, a soft, private smile playing on her lips as she listened to the replay on the TV.
“We got ambushed!” Bharath protested, playing along. “One minute it’s about midfield strategy, the next...”
“Next your face does that thing,” Devi interrupted. “That ‘I’m-so-in-love-I-might-forget-how-to-blink’ thing. And Anya, poor thing, you turned the shade of a ripe tomato. A very beautiful tomato, but still.”
“I was warm!”
“You were luminous,” Kim stated, matter-of-factly. “They’re not wrong. The country is now collectively swooning.”
Priya snorted. “I bet you did.”
A comfortable, teasing rhythm settled, dissecting every moment. But amidst the laughter, Bharath’s gaze grew thoughtful, moving from Anya to Kim, then to Celina. The spotlight felt like a narrow beam, leaving others he cherished in the shadows. He reached over and gently took the apple slice from Kim’s hand.
“Wait,” he said, his voice softening, cutting through the banter. “Kim, Celina ... this ‘golden couple’ noise. It doesn’t sit right if it makes you feel ... sidelined.” Anya immediately nodded, her expression shifting to one of earnest concern. “She’s the public face, but you are the heart. You know that, don’t you?”
The line from the safehouse went quiet for a moment.
It was Priya who spoke first, her voice uncharacteristically gentle. “Listen to me, both of you. Kim, Celina. That boy on TV is just a poster. The man we know, the one who worries about balance in the middle of a media storm, he belongs to all of you. Anya holds the microphone right now. But you two hold the quiet. And the quiet is what keeps him standing.”
Devi’s voice, softer now, joined in. “Anna has always had a heart bigger than his sense of self-preservation. He doesn’t know how to love in fractions. What the world sees today is just one beautiful slice of the whole, crazy, wonderful pie. And we,” she emphasized, “are grateful for every single one of you who puts up with him.”
Touched, Celina placed her magazine aside. Her eyes glittered with emotion. “Come here,” she murmured to Kim. In a fluid movement, she settled herself onto Bharath’s lap, then pulled Kim down to snuggle into the space beside them, creating a warm, tangled knot of limbs and affection on the couch. Anya watched, her smile tender, and leaned in to brush her lips against Kim’s hair.
“See?” Celina whispered, her arms around Bharath’s neck. “This is our reality. The posters are for them.” She kissed him, slow and deep. Kim turned his face towards her and followed suit, her kiss speaking of a love that needed no publicity.
On the other end of the line, a distinct, muffled sound of prolonged kissing replaced speech.
Then, a stage-whisper from Devi. “Priya? Are you hearing this? I think we’ve been disconnected for a ... physical feedback loop.”
“Disconnected?” Priya replied, her voice dripping with mock horror. “I think we’ve been downgraded to audience members for a live performance. Is that sighing? I definitely heard sighing.”
A particularly contented hum from Celina traveled faintly over the line.
“Okay, that’s our cue!” Devi announced, her laughter bubbling back. “We have been officially out-romanced. Our work is done. Anna, try not to look so thoroughly kissed when you leave the house tomorrow. The press will have questions.”
“Yes,” Priya concluded, her wit sharp as ever. “Bharath, Anya. Congratulations on the public branding. Kim, Celina. Our condolences on the sudden demotion to ‘steamy background noise’. We’ll expect a full debrief when you all come up for air. Preferably in writing.”
“With diagrams!” Devi added.
The call ended amidst their shared laughter, a sound of pure, uncomplicated joy that echoed in the safehouse and the apartment alike. In the warm silence that followed, the four of them remained entwined, the phantom echoes of their sisters’ teasing a testament to the unique, sprawling, and fiercely loving family they had all become.
The speakerphone had clicked off, but nobody noticed. They were all too far gone in each other’s embrace. It started when, without a word, Bharath had reached for Anya’s hand. Kim had stood, extending her own to Celina. They had moved to the bedroom not with passion’s haste, but with a solemn, unified purpose. The angst, the fear, the two days of wretched separation. It all needed to be exorcised, not with words, which felt too fragile, but with the absolute, reaffirming language of skin and breath and shuddering release.
Now, much later, the room was a landscape of spent tranquility. The air hung warm and heavy with the musk of their communion. Bharath lay on his back, a mountain of satisfied muscle beneath a tapestry of blissfully wrecked women. Anya was curled into his right side, her lips parted in sleep, one arm flung possessively across his chest. Kim was splayed on his left, her cheek on his shoulder, her breathing a deep, even rhythm that fluttered the fine hairs on his skin.
And Celina, the most wanton of them all in her satiation, lay directly atop him, her head nestled in the hollow of his neck, her limbs slack and heavy. He was still sheathed within her, a final, intimate anchor connecting them in the stillness. A slow, contented tear had traced a path from her closed eye down to his collarbone, where it glistened in the low light.
It was Kim who stirred first, nuzzling against his shoulder with a sigh so profound it seemed to come from her toes. “Jaan. I don’t think I can move,” she murmured, her voice raspy. “I think you broke something essential. In a wonderful way.”
Celina hummed in agreement, the vibration traveling through her body into his. “Mmm. I feel liquid. In the best possible sense. All the sharp, angry pieces from yesterday are just ... dissolved.”
Bharath’s arms, which had been resting around them, tightened gently. He pressed a kiss into Celina’s sweat-damp hair as he gently pulled her closer to him causing him to go deeper into her. Celina moaned. “Good,” he whispered, the word rough with emotion. “Never again. That silence ... I can’t survive it.”
Anya’s eyes fluttered open. She lifted her head just enough to look at him, her gaze soft and unfiltered. “We were all so stupid,” she breathed. “Letting fear make us cruel to each other.” She reached across his torso, her fingers finding and lacing with Kim’s. “A promise. Here, now. However angry we get, we never go to bed like that again. We fight, we shout, we cry, but we finish it. Together. Naked. We need fuck our anger away.”
“And if we’re not together,” Kim added, squeezing Anya’s hand, her pragmatic mind already building the contingency. “If duty or distance or this damned spotlight pulls us apart ... we meet in the dreamscape. Every night. No exceptions. We always need to go to sleep like this.”
A solemn, unspoken vow settled over them, more binding than any spoken oath. It was sealed with the press of Celina’s body, a soft kiss from Anya on his pectoral, and Kim’s sigh of absolute agreement as she claimed his lips.
It was in this cocoon of spent passion and reforged bonds that the practical world, cold and insistent, finally seeped back in.
Celina shifted minutely, a frown touching her brow. “You know. We need to be careful from today,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper, as if loud words might shatter their peace. “This apartment ... it will become a glass box now. They’ll watch Anya coming and going. They’ll watch you, Bharath.” She lifted her head slightly, her silver eyes serious in the gloom. “And if even one curious photographer with a long lens gets a clear shot of me or Kim through that window ... for me, it’s a death sentence. The Syndicate thinks I am dead. I can’t be seen living with a footballer. Even Kim. It will become a scandal.”
The truth of it landed heavily in the warm space between them. Kim’s hand, still holding Anya’s, went tense. “She’s anonymous. I’m anonymous. But we can’t live like ghosts in our own home, peering around curtains.”
Anya’s breath hitched. “So we hide you? That’s the solution? You two become our dirty secret?” The pain in her voice was sharper than any anger.
“No,” Bharath said, the word final. He moved, carefully easing himself from Celina, eliciting a soft, protesting sound from her. He shifted, gathering them all closer, his back against the headboard, until they were a nestled pile in his lap and at his sides. “The solution is we leave. All of us. Together.”
He looked at the room around them. The walls that had held their first whispers, their laughter, their fears. “This was our sanctuary when we were no one. Now we’re someone. We need a fortress.”
“A new house,” Kim said, the idea taking root. “Somewhere with walls that don’t have eyes. Where the only people who know the address is our family.”
“A place where we can be a family,” Anya continued, her voice gaining strength. “Not a public couple with two mysterious, beautiful roommates. A real family. Where Celina can burn toast in the kitchen at 3 AM without it being a tabloid headline.”
Celina managed a weak smile. “I would like a bigger kitchen. And a bathroom where I don’t have to schedule my showers around Kim’s existential crises about pore size.”
“I would like soundproofing,” Kim retorted, poking Celina’s hip. “So the whole neighborhood doesn’t have to listen to your dramatic renditions of classic film dialogues while you’re on the toilet.”
“And a real bedroom,” Bharath said, his hands stroking their hair, their backs, as if memorizing them. “One big enough for a bed that actually fits all of us without someone dangling off the edge.”
“Oh don’t worry shona. We don’t mind snuggling on top of you,” said Anya seductively.
“I don’t mind either. But it would be nice to have a bedroom with a much bigger bed,” said Kim practically.
They fell quiet then, imagining it. Not a hiding place, but a kingdom. A space built for their specific, sprawling, extraordinary love. The regret over the lost apartment was a faint ache, soothed by the fierce, protective hope blossoming in its place. They would grieve the old home, yes. But they would build the new one with their own hands, their own rules, and their own unbreakable promise, sworn in the dark while their hearts still beat against each other in a languid, sated rhythm.
Ballygange apartment
The afternoon sun poured into the apartment, highlighting the dust motes dancing in the quiet. The calm was shattered by the sharp, insistent ring of the doorbell. Anya, who had been attempting to fold a mountain of laundry on the sofa, froze, her head tilting. Kim looked up from her psychology textbook, a pencil stuck behind her ear. Celina, practicing a demure posture in the corner, simply raised an eyebrow.
A beat of silence, then a familiar, melodic voice called through the door, “Shall I stand here until Diwali, or will someone let their old mother in?”
Chaos erupted.
Anya let out a gleeful shriek, launching herself over the back of the sofa and skidding across the floor in her socks. Kim’s textbook was forgotten, clattering to the ground as she scrambled up. Celina was the first to reach the door, her practiced composure vanishing into a grin of pure, unadulterated joy.
She yanked the door open, and there stood Sree Narayanan, a vision of elegant simplicity in a crisp cotton saree, a single leather folder in hand, her eyes crinkling at the corners with affection. She had barely opened her mouth to speak before she was engulfed.
“Amma!” Anya cried, throwing her arms around Sree’s neck.
“You didn’t tell us you were coming today!” Kim exclaimed, wrapping her arms around both of them from the side, her Punjabi exuberance squeezing the air from Sree in a warm, fierce hug.
Celina, not to be left out, joined the scrum, pressing her cheek against Sree’s shoulder. “We’ve missed you terribly,” she said, her voice thick with emotion. “This house has been far too sane without you.”
Sree laughed, a rich, warm sound as she tried to pat whichever part of which girl she could reach. “Enough, enough! You will crack my ribs, and then who will sign your trust papers? Let me breathe, my dears!”
They reluctantly loosened their grip, but Anya was already darting out the door. “Your bags! I’ll get them!”
“Just the one suitcase, kanna! By the taxi Don’t worry the driver said he will bring it up!” Sree called after her, shaking her head with fond exasperation. She was shepherded into the living room, where Kim immediately began fussing with the fan speed and Celina ran to fetch a glass of cool water.
“Sit, sit, you must be exhausted from the journey,” Kim instructed, pulling out the best armchair.
“Looking at you three is all the refreshment I need,” Sree said, her Tamil lilt softening her words as she took in each of them. She reached out and cupped Celina’s cheek. “You look strong, maggale (daughters). The city air agrees with you.” Her hand then found Kim’s, giving it a squeeze. “And you, my practical one. Keeping them all in line, I hope.”
Anya returned, hauling the suitcase with a grunt, her face flushed with effort and happiness. “All secured!”
For a glorious, noisy half-hour, the apartment was filled with the sound of overlapping voices, laughter, and the clink of teacups. They traded news. Sree’s journey from Chennai, the girls’ whispered updates on the rescued sisters at the safehouse, the dizzying fallout from the press conference. It was a raucous, loving collision of their different worlds: Sree’s grounded Tamil wisdom, Celina and Anya’s modern, metropolitan energy, and Kim’s earthy Punjabi pragmatism, all woven together by a shared, fierce devotion.
Finally, Sree set her cup down with a soft, decisive click. “Now, to work. We have an appointment to build a future.” She looked at Celina, her gaze turning, assessing. “Are you ready, Sara Khanna?”
Celina took a deep breath, her playful demeanor settling into something focused and determined. She nodded. “I am.”
Alipore, Calcutta – Office of DevRathi Philanthropy Solutions
The office was an oasis of hushed sophistication, a world away from their sun-drenched, chaotic apartment. The air was cool and still, smelling of lemongrass polish and quiet ambition. Sree Narayanan walked through the glass doors with the unassuming authority of a queen in civilian clothes, her simple saree and neat bun speaking of substance over show.
Beside her, Celina moved with a new kind of grace. Not the predatory stalk of the runway, but the purposeful stride of someone carrying a fragile, precious truth. The grey kurta and cotton jhola were her armour; the simple glasses, her shield. She was entirely, convincingly Sara Khanna.
The consultant, Shilpa Dev, met them in a sunlit conference room. She was a woman of elegant composure, her intelligence a quiet, sharp presence in the room. Her handshake was firm, her eyes missing nothing as they took in Sree’s poised assurance and Celina’s earnest intensity.
“A non-profit corpus,” Sree began, her voice clear and leaving no room for ambiguity. “Its purpose is threefold: immediate safe housing, comprehensive vocational training, and accessible legal aid. We are focusing on young women who are, for all practical purposes, orphans. Those who have fallen through society’s cracks, often after experiences of exploitative guardianship.”
Shilpa’s pen hovered over her notepad. “Not statutory runaways, then.”
“Not in the legal sense that would invite certain ... bureaucratic complexities,” Sree affirmed, her tone diplomatic but firm. “Our goal is to provide a path, not just a shelter.”
Celina leaned forward, her hands clasped on the table. “We want to anchor them. A rescue is just the first moment. We need to teach them how to navigate the world that failed them. To fight back with knowledge, with skills, with strategy.”
Shilpa’s gaze lingered on Celina, hearing the conviction beneath the carefully chosen words. “You’re describing a mentorship model. Long-term investment. Visibility for a cause, not just charity.”
“Yes,” Celina said, a spark of passion breaking through her professional calm. “Exactly.”
The conversation flowed into the practicalities: trust structures, regulatory frameworks, the advantages of a low-profile launch. Sree handled the financial and legal intricacies with the ease of a seasoned strategist, while Celina articulated the vision, her voice growing stronger with each point. They were a perfect team: the experienced architect and the driven founder.
“The board will require influential names,” Shilpa noted, looking at Sree.
“That will be seen to,” Sree said smoothly. “The initial funding is also secured.”
Shilpa then turned to Celina. “And your role, Ms. Khanna? The public face of a trust needs to be both credible and compelling.”
Celina met her gaze. “I will be the face when the time is right. For now, the work is the face. The results will do the talking.”
A small, approving smile touched Shilpa’s lips. She made a final note. “Then we begin with the foundational steps. And the name? A trust needs a heart as well as a structure.”
Sree and Celina shared a look. They had discussed many options, but only one had ever felt true.
Celina spoke the words softly, but they seemed to fill the quiet room. “Asha Sangini.”
Shilpa paused, then translated gently. “Hope’s Companion. That’s beautiful.”
Celina nodded, her eyes bright. “Because that is what we want to be. Not just saviours arriving in a storm. The companion who walks with them through the rain, and stays to see the sun.”
Shilpa wrote the name down in elegant script, the ink seeming to seal a promise. “A beautiful name,” she said. “Let’s begin.”
Taj Bengal – Sree’s Suite, Calcutta
The silence of the hotel corridor was profound, a thick, expensive quiet that absorbed the sound of their footsteps. Anya pressed the elevator button, the chime too loud in the hush. Beside her, Bharath stood with his hands shoved deep in his pockets, his usual vitality subdued by a tangible gloom.
“So, is this a strategy summit or a disguised tea party?” he asked, his attempt at lightness falling flat even to his own ears.
“With your mother, it is always both,” Anya replied, leaning her head briefly against his shoulder. “The snacks will be excellent, and the tactical advice devastating.”